kintsukuroi
by pickledoatmeals
Summary: A witch manages to break Dean and Cas up. After months of separation, it's up to Dean and Cas themselves to repair their relationship, and give that witch the payback she deserves. Destiel, casefic, canon-divergent.


**Title:** kinstukuroi

**Author:** pickledoatmeals (S.H. Collins)

**Summary:** A witch manages to break Dean and Cas up. After months of separation, it's up to Dean and Cas themselves to repair their relationship, and give that witch the payback she deserves.

**Warnings:** canon-divergent, human!Cas

**Disclaimer:** No copyright infringement intended

**A/N:** Huge thanks to my beta Emma (rebel-l0ve-s0ngs-0n-replay on Tumblr)! Any remaining mistakes are mine. Also, I do not live in Lawrence, Kansas, or USA for that matter, but I tried my best to make things geographically accurate as possible. English is not my first language, so I deeply apologise for the mistakes. I'm also not sure which time frame would I fit this fic into, so I'd leave that to the readers.

* * *

**I.**

_Sunday, 12 May 2013_

He was straddling a brunette he met at the bar on a king-sized bed of a random motel room. His mouth penetrated her mouth until it was down her throat while her hands fumbled to undo the belt on his waist. He cupped her plump breasts, unclasped her bra, and caressed each until her nubs hardened and she moaned his name. He sucked on her nipples until her hands moved sporadically on his head, tangling his hair between her fingers. Her hips jerked forward, meeting the other's hardened cock—

—until she was shoved aside. She saw his green eyes widen, then shut tight. He pursed his lips, brought his hands to his cover his face.

When he seemed to have calmed down, he said softly, "I'm sorry. I… I can't do this."

She looked at him questioningly.

"I'm really sorry," she heard him say before he put his clothes back on and stormed out of the room.

**II.**

_Saturday, 06 July 2013_

Ryan Pleasance lived a normal and boring life at Lawrence, Kansas. He is an incoming third year high school student at Lawrence High, has a girlfriend named Harriet Lewis, and was the sort of normal kid who's popular-but-not-quite. He loves his iPod and always wears jeans and hoodies and Converse or Vans.

He loves grilled cheese, so when his mother called him for breakfast at 8AM on a particular July Saturday, he quickly dressed up and hurried downstairs.

He went to the kitchen where he found a plate of his favourite meal on the breakfast counter, but his mother was nowhere to be seen. He heard Toby chirp and Frank bark, but he couldn't see nor hear his mother. He looked around, and finally heard voices from the front door. He followed the voices, and he saw his mother talking to a scrawny guy in a suit. He heard that the guy was from the FBI, but he doubts that the man is a genuine Fed because he looks so thin, and his methods of asking questions were similar enough to those he sees on crime procedural shows. _Maybe he's not a real fed and just mimics what he sees on the telly._

So why is there a special agent on their front door?

His mother, who he assumed to have sensed his presence, turned to him. "Ryan," she said in that soothingly cold voice (laced with dejection), "This is Agent John Dwayne."

_John Dwayne? That has got to be a fake name._

Ryan looked at the Fed, who was beaming at him. He thinks that the thin Fed swallowed the sun. "Good morning, Agent," he said, masking the look of scepticism threatening to take over his face, "…Aren't you supposed to have a partner or something?"

"You too, little kid," he greeted back in a chipper tone way too chipper for 8AM on a summer day, "And no, my partner's sick."

He was about to tell him that he's seventeen years old, and certainly not a kid anymore, when his mum spoke. She lacked her usual jovial countenance, and sensed that something might be wrong. _The agent at the door has been a huge clue, you idiot_. "Agent Dwayne says that Mr Wheaton was found dead."

_Mr Wheaton was dead_. Mr Maurice Wheaton, if he recalls correctly, was their neighbour who moved eight months ago. His house screamed _back off my lawn_, but one time, when his mum told him to give the man a box of cake, he walked up to the front door, and was greeted by a burly and florid man who was clutching a bottle of whiskey on his free hand.

He looked askance at the cake, and turned his lustreless eyes to Ryan's face. He said in a gruff, hostile tone, "What do you want?"

Ryan swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and said in a small voice, "My mum wants to give this to you."

Mr Wheaton narrowed his eyes. "Your mum?"

"Yes, my mum," Ryan replied, itching to go back to his room, "Andrea Pleasance. We live two doors to your left."

"Ah, Andrea," the man said, the hostility slipping from his face, replaced by a friendlier look, "Do you want to come in?"

_Andrea? Since when did this man go on first-name basis with my mum?_ Now that he thinks about it, he never noticed that Mr Wheaton talked with his mother.

Deciding that he doesn't want to get on the bad side of their reclusive neighbour, Ryan said, "Sure."

He went inside and stepped on the rug on placed by the door. The hostile look returned to Mr Wheaton's face by the way his eyes narrowed, but quickly disappeared when he moved along. He led him to the kitchen, and in the few steps from the front door to the kitchen, he couldn't help but notice all sorts of strange symbols and things scattered across the tiny and sparsely-decorated house. _And why are his windows and doors lined with… salt?_

He placed the cake on the table, and Mr Wheaton offered him a glass of water. He was about to reject him when he remembered that making this man mad might not be a good idea.

He murmured a note of thanks, and took the glass from him. The man was holding up a knife which glinted sinisterly under the kitchen light. "For the cake," he said.

"That's a nice knife you have," Ryan commented upon seeing the ornate carvings on the handle.

"It's made of silver," he replied, setting down a plate of cake in front of the boy, "It's also a family heirloom. My ancestors received it from good old Mr Colt. I have another one. It's made of pure iron."

He doesn't care about who Mr Colt is. "That's a pretty elaborate knife for kitchen use."

Mr Wheaton smirked. "You're a sharp bloke, aren't you?"

So when Ryan Pleasance heard that Mr Maurice Wheaton died, he wasn't sure if he's going to treat it with nonchalance or sympathy. After all, even if the man was creepy with all the creepy things inside his little house and all the creepy things he did, he never harmed anyone.

Sure, he saw him putting a shotgun at the trunk of his Mustang.

And sure, he saw him carrying a huge sack of salt, but really, he was a peaceful guy who attracted suspicion but not attention to fuel the rumour mill.

He thinks that it's kind of sad to hear the man pass away.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Special Agent John Dwayne said that he found Mr Wheaton's relatives, so they put his coffin (rest his soul) into a hearse. Ryan was wondering if it was just his imagination or he saw Agent Dwayne sneak a container of salt and gasoline at his old, decrepit truck. _Really, a federal agent, drive a truck straight out a salvage yard?_

The old truck and hearse drove off, and he never saw the scrawny FBI agent—if he really is one—ever since.

He wanted to look into poor Mr Wheaton's house, but the police have cordoned it, and he knows better than to mess with law. Besides, the house gave off an aura too early for Halloween, and quickly became the subject of most ghost stories in the neighbourhood.

Yes, Ryan Pleasance is still a normal boy.

III.

_Saturday, 10 August 2013_

It has been almost a month since Mr Maurice Wheaton died, and Ryan Pleasance was blaring up music from his speakers when he saw a moving truck park on the lot across their house.

_So it has been sold, huh?_

He walked towards his window where he saw the movers load a few boxes into the house—too few, Ryan thinks. He saw their neighbours Dianne and Harold Spears—back from their honeymoon, he guesses—walk down the lane and turn their heads to the house. Then he saw a dark-haired man walk towards the couple. They engaged in a conversation, and he assumed that the dark-haired man was their new neighbour.

He wore a tan trench coat which he thinks was too big for him.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Thursday, 15 August 2013_

He learned that their new neighbour's name was James Milton. It was afternoon and blaringly hot, but his mother insisted that he take some biscuits to Jimmy's house. _Jimmy? My mum's too sociable_.

He rang the doorbell—angel-shaped, for God's sake—and after a few seconds, Mr Milton opened the door.

"Ryan, I presume?" he said in a deep voice. He noticed the bloke's eyes travel from the tray to his face and said, "Would you like to come in?"

The moment reminded him so much of that time with Mr Wheaton. _May he rest in peace_.

Just like Mr Wheaton's house, the house was barely decorated. Jimmy told him to sit on the only couch in the room. He looked around him. Unlike Mr Wheaton's house, this place doesn't have the strange symbols and things. The walls were of drab green wallpaper, and it's noticeable that they were just plastered over the wall, judging from the red mark on a tiny space uncovered. There was a small coffee table made of artificial wood, and a small telly. Nondescript white curtains covered the window _(is that salt on the windowpane? What's the deal with salt?)_, and a plain brown rug was placed by the door. One of the rug's sides was upturned, and he can see a bright red mark seemingly part of a circle—

"Ryan?" Mr Milton's voice shook him out of his daze. He followed the boy's gaze, and saw that he was staring at the rug. He arranged it, and walked back to him. "Tea?"

He looked at his neighbour. "Thanks, Mr Milton."

"Jimmy, please," he said amicably.

"But you're older than me."

The other chuckled. "I think Jimmy suits me better."

Jimmy took a cookie from the tray Ryan delivered. "Your mum makes good biscuits."

"She does," he agreed, "I think Mrs Lewis gave her the recipe."

"Mrs Lewis?" the other asked, drinking from the teacup.

"My girlfriend's mum. From the bakery at Connecticut Street."

"Oh. That one," he said, and Ryan saw recognition dawn upon his face.

"Yes, that one. My girlfriend's family owns it. That's how my mum got the recipe."

Jimmy hummed, taking another bite from the biscuit.

"Can I ask you something?"

The man looked at the boy. "Go ahead."

Ryan fidgeted in his seat, unsure whether to ask the question in his mind or not. "Do you… Do you now Maurice Wheaton?"

Jimmy tilted his head and knitted his brows together. "No, I haven't heard of anyone with that name… Why do you ask?"

The boy looked at the window. "You have salt—I think it's salt—lining your doors and windows. Mr Wheaton had salt on them, too. In my seventeen years of being alive, I've only encountered two individuals who did that—you and Mr Wheaton. He also had strange symbols all over his house's walls. I don't what are they for."

He narrowed his eyes more. "This Mr Wheaton… Where do I find him?"

"The house two doors to my house's right. And oh, he's been dead for a little over a month."

_Silence._

"Oh. I… I don't know him."

Ryan could see in Jimmy's face that he really didn't know his dead neighbour, but if his mind's not playing tricks on him, he swears that he saw Jimmy's face contort into a look of suspicion.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Wednesday, 21 August 2013_

Jimmy has been living in their neighbourhood for almost two weeks, and from what Ryan observed from his bedroom window, the bloke didn't have a car. He saw him walking back to house with a small bag or two of groceries from the convenience store. He never saw the trench coat again; this is summer, and why would he wear a trench coat? He always wore a simple shirt or button-down and jeans.

When his girlfriend Harriet insisted that he take her to the library so she could check out the baking books her mum asked her to, he saw Jimmy at the checkout counter. _So he works at the library_. He smiled at them when they presented the books to him at the counter. He learned that Jimmy works at the library from Mondays to Saturdays, 8AM to 5PM.

He can't say that he's a sharp observer, but he can't help but notice Jimmy go to Mr Wheaton's house one late night. He was about to turn off the lights when he saw a figure whom he can only assume was Jimmy walk out of the house in front of his. He looked at him from another window, and saw him walk past the Spears's house, and trespass at the house of the dead guy.

He didn't think much of it. Or didn't _want_ to.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Wednesday, 21 August 2013, 3:08PM_

In the afternoon, he was revelling at how good his mum's tiramisu was when the doorbell rang. He heard his mother's footsteps and the door open.

Minutes later, she was in the kitchen with two FBI agents. _At least they're not as scrawny as that guy who claimed to be John Dwayne._

"Good afternoon…" said the agent with the long hair.

"Ryan," he answered.

"Right, Ryan," Long Hair said, "I'm Special Agent Cook, and this is my partner Special Agent Wilson."

"Have a seat, Agents," his mum said, and the visitors sat at the available counter stools while his mum served them tiramisu and sat down at the remaining stool. The agents refused the treat, but his mum insisted. Hard.

"We're here to ask about Mr Wheaton's death," Cook said.

"But he's been dead for almost a month," Ryan answered, "And one of your buddies already asked about it."

"Our buddy? Agent Dwayne?" the other agent, Wilson, said.

"Yes…" the boy answered, "Why are you investigating Mr Wheaton's death? He died of a heart attack. Unless this is the work of some supernatural notebook which kills people if you write their name on it, which is impossible, since that's a work of fiction. Why is the FBI investigating a simple heart attack case?"

Cook and Wilson stared at him.

"You're sharp, aren't you?" Wilson said.

"Mr Wheaton told me the same thing."

"You know what kid," Wilson said, taking a spoonful of the tiramisu, "This ain't _Death Note_—"

"You know _Death Note_?" Ryan asked incredulously.

Cook and Ryan stared at him disbelievingly. "What? I'm not allowed to watch anime?"

"No… It's just…" the boy muttered.

"Ryan," his mum said, "I think it's best if you go back to your room. I'll deal with the agents."

"No, no, Mrs Pleasance," Cook said, "We want to ask him questions first. Then we'll ask you later."

"What could my son possibly contribute to your investigation?" Mrs Pleasance asked.

"Every testimony counts," Cook said, "Now Ryan, would you like tell us the things you know about Mr Wheaton?"

He told him about the salt, the symbols on the wall, and the weird things inside his messy little house. His mother corroborated his statements by telling them that she saw the symbols one time when Mr Wheaton's curtains were drawn. The agents exchanged knowing glances.

Mrs Pleasance told them mundane things about their dead neighbour, like what they talked about, which neighbours were his friends, and his apparent lack of job.

The agents got up, bid them goodbye, and motioned to walk towards the door, and sensed that his mother was planning to escort them.

"I'll walk them to the door," Ryan offered, and his mother gave him a suspicious look, quickly replaced by a smile of gratitude.

Once at the door, Ryan said in a hushed voice, "You might want to ask the guy who lives there," and he cocked his head towards Jimmy's house, "The name's Jimmy Milton. He moved here two weeks ago, about a month after Mr Wheaton died. He also had salt lining his doors and windows. And I saw him entering Mr Wheaton's house."

Cook and Wilson squinted at him, as if processing the information he just gave them.

"He works at the library, Mondays to Saturday, 8AM to 5PM from what he told me," he said, and added in a lower and serious voice, "Is this… Are they involved in cults?"

He saw the agents quickly stifle their laughter. "Whether or not this Mr Wheaton and Mr Milton are involved in cults is something we'll find out later."

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Tuesday, 08 January 2013_

Castiel liked it when it rained. He liked hearing the pitter-patter of the raindrops against the roof, liked to see rivulets race on the windows, liked the dirty puddles forming on the sidewalk, and the cold and wet atmosphere hanging over his head.

This time, Castiel hated the rain.

He fidgeted the hem of the sweatshirt he wore—Dean's old sweatshirt—as he stared at the raindrops dousing everything outside. Two days ago, it snowed. Two days ago, he gave up his grace to a witch to save Dean.

He knew he can save Dean, but Sam was hexed, and the witch held a cursed blade to Dean's heart. One funny move and his family will suffer from pains he doesn't wish to know. He stepped forward, causing Sam to writhe in pain and blade inching closer to Dean's heart.

_Your Grace_, the witch said, _that's all I need, and you can save your friends. You can save the people I hold hostage._

He wanted to ask help from his brothers and sisters, but doing so would kill everyone.

So he had no choice but give up his Grace to the damned witch to save everyone.

And no matter how much he wants to deny it, he thinks that is the best way he can atone for his crimes on Heaven and Earth, which he failed to atone for in Purgatory.

Now, he was human, weak, dependent, vulnerable. Dean and Sam consoled him. Dean whispered soothing words of consolation to his ears, held him close, kissed his lips to tell him that everything's okay.

But things are not okay. He's not an angel anymore. He'll just bring burden to Sam and Dean—and Dean, oh Dean, who he loves more than anything in all of the planes of existence. He loves him enough to give up his Grace for him.

He heard about the relief self-harm offers, but as he motioned to slide the razor across his wrists, Dean snatched the blade away, and yelled at him furiously. He said that they'll solve things, that they'll get his Grace back, and everything will be back to norma. Dean kissed him over and over again, and made love to him to show that everything will be alright.

But he's burdened the Winchesters enough, and asking them for their help will make him guiltier. He 'betrayed' them, but they accepted him again. Now, they are helping him. Again. After all, it was because of him that the witch caught them. If he didn't— If he hadn't—

And so, in that cold and rainy Tuesday morning, he placed a kiss on the sleeping Dean's forehead, and left with only a note which simply said 'Goodbye'.

He hadn't dare look back, because if he did, his resolve would crumple like how Lot's wife turned into salt when she looked back at Sodom. He doesn't want to do this, but he has to.

He couldn't make anyone suffer because of him again.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

He only took a few clothes with him, and it fit in a tiny duffel bag. He left his phone behind, because bringing it would also bring the Winchesters's messages. They'd also track him because of the GPS, and that's the last thing he wants to happen.

He found himself in Philadelphia cleaning tables at diners. He found no clue about the witch, so he moved on the next state and found another job. Still no clue. He repeated this cycle until he decided to make Lawrence, Kansas his headquarters.

He felt a part of him wither and die as moved away from the love of his life, but he has to. All for their safety.

He refused to let the tears fall down because that only made him feel how weak he is now that he is human. Alcohol offered a reprieve, but the hangover the following morning was nothing desirable. He was too tempted to try the drugs he heard about, but he remembered the story Dean told him when Zachariah zapped him to 2014 and found a stoned version of himself.

But he was so close. He lost his Grace. He was so weak and useless. He has to do penance for his crimes, for all those times he let Dean down, for all those times he thought he was doing the right thing, for all those times he burdened the Winchesters.

And he needs to get through everything without Dean by his side.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Dean Winchester made a shallow hole with his first in the stone wall of the motel room when he found Castiel's note. Mr Richard Noel's credit card paid for the damages, and he hoped that he could also be repaired from the damage his angel dealt him.

He did something he is loathe to do—cry in front of his brother.

Sam hugged him until his body stopped shaking. Dean repeated the words 'I told him that everything will be fine' and 'It's no one's fault', but it was more to convince himself rather than the angel.

The succeeding days found him in random bars with random hook-ups. He was disgusted of himself, but he couldn't afford another break down. Dean Winchester does not break down.

He tried to lose himself in hunting and searching for the fucking witch who did this all, but the witch was so hard to find he almost thought that she didn't exist in the first place.

But the damned witch did, because if she didn't, then Castiel would be the one laying beside him, not some girl whose name he forgot.

**IV.**

_05 July 2013_

_My real name is Marvin Cole, not Maurice Wheaton. I'm a hunter. I hunt supernatural things—vampires, shapeshifters, skinwalkers, wendigos, demons, angels, leviathans, and in this case, witches—to bring safety to this world._

_Eight months ago, 09 November 12, I moved here to Lawrence, Kansas, because rumours about a coven of witches circulated the hunter radar. However, it was just an unconfirmed possibility, so I checked in at Motel 6 to investigate. I started with the library, looking up books and newspapers, but couldn't find anything. There were fires and ghosts and poltergeists, but nothing about witches. I asked around, but nothing strange was happening. I've come to decide that this was just a rumour, but one Missouri Moseley seems to know something. I tried to coax information out of the psychic, but her lips remained shut. She just told me about the White Light, and I tried to pry for more information, but she swatted me again and again. Ultimately, she told me to seek Charles Lewis. I soon learned that Mr Charles Lewis is the father of the current owner of the bakery, his daughter, Carol Lewis (it's their family business). He told me that when he was ten years old, he saw a black hare, and that immediately caught my attention since witches are known to transform into hares, or other creatures. He followed the hare into the forest, but something came over him, and the last thing he could remember before losing consciousness was a blinding, warm light scattering everywhere. The light wasn't ominous; rather it seemed to radiate goodness and warmth. The next day, he woke up in a hospital bed, and couldn't remember anything._

_I asked myself, how did he remember the incident if he couldn't remember a thing upon waking up? Mr Lewis immediately cleared up my suspicions._

_When he woke up in Lawrence Memorial Hospital, his mother and two police officers were there. They asked him how did he get in the forest, and said that couldn't remember anything. The adults told him that a bright light came out of the forest, and a crater formed near where his unconscious body was found. There was nothing inside the crater, but everyone felt oddly comfortable around it. It exuded the kind of feeling you get after doing a benevolent act._

_He was then released at the hospital when he saw a black hare quickly hiding into the bushes, and suddenly, it all came back to him. He asked his mother for newspapers and watched the news, but a black hare wasn't mentioned._

_He never saw the hare again until he was sixteen years old._

_He didn't lose his consciousness that time. Once again, there was a blinding and warm light just like the one in his childhood, and the incident happened again when he was 32 years old._

_I asked him why he lost consciousness the first time he saw the hare, but not for the second and third. He suspects that maybe it has something to do with proximity—he was almost at the epicentre of the first crater, whereas he observed the second and third White Light (and the craters, by extension) from a considerable distance._

_That was the last time he saw the hare._

_I enquired about the fourth White Light this January, and he said that he wasn't a personal witness to it because he was stuck in his home. He blames his old age. He also didn't see the Black Hare._

_Mr Lewis finished his story, and I felt that I must stay here longer to investigate the case of the Black Hare and the White Light. From the reports I've culled, good and bad things happened to the people who went near the craters—some got lucky, while some didn't. The lucky ones said that they felt more blessed than lucky, and the unfortunate ones think that they've been cursed. Mr Lewis appears to be one of the lucky ones._

_I found a cheap house at Rhode Island St, so I moved there, and continued my investigation. It was cheaper than renting this room because I have a feeling that I'll be investigating this case for a while._

_During my stay, there were simple salt and burn cases, but clues regarding the Black Hare were nowhere to be seen. I've talked to the people in the neighbourhood I've become acquainted with—the Pleasances, the Spears, the Lewis family—but aside from Charles Lewis and Missouri Moseley, no one knows about the Black Hare. _

_I was about to give up when I saw with my own two eyes a black hare going to the forest in the cold winter night of 09 January 2013. I made myself as invisible as possible, and I saw and felt it, the white, blinding, warm light spilling everywhere. The next day, reports about the Fourth White Light circulated the papers and town conversations._

_Clues were scarce after that. I hunted a few more supernatural menaces, but nothing about the Black Hare floated. I contacted other hunters for help, and one Garth Fitzgerald IV said that he'll swing by a week later to look at things._

_But I'm afraid that he won't see me alive, because I am writing this a few minutes before my death._

_Charles Lewis didn't die. I have every protection against witches that I could find, but I can still feel the Black Hare coming for me. Maybe the reason why it was never mentioned is because everyone who saw it died. But Charles Lewis remains alive. Ms Moseley's silence also remains to be a mystery._

_I have written wards on this paper so that no malevolent creature could find, touch, or harm this letter of goodbye. I write this in the hopes that fellow hunters could solve the mystery of the Black Hare and the White Light._

_I can feel it coming closer. I wonder why did it wait for a few months before it killed me. I wonder why Charles Lewis continues to breathe. I wonder why Missouri Moseley chose to keep the cat in the bag._

_I shall now seal this and hide this where no one could destroy it._

_May you continue what I've started._

_Marvin Cole_

**.**

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**.**

**.**

_Wednesday, 21 August 2013, 06:17PM_

Ryan saw a tacky black car park in front of Jimmy's house. Agents Cook and Wilson got out of the car. _Isn't that car a bit too old for FBI agents?_

He saw Cook and Wilson knock at the door—_maybe they didn't want to touch the corny angel doorbell._ Minutes—_long_ minutes—later, Jimmy opened the door, and Ryan witnessed one of the longest staring contests in his life before his mum called him for dinner.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

Castiel left the Bunker roughly eight months ago with only a goodbye scribbled hastily on a piece of paper. He made up his mind. He wouldn't let the Winchesters in harm's way again while he tries to get back his Grace back.

He doesn't know where to start. He doesn't have any hunter connections, his 'people skills' are 'rusty', and he doubts that anyone will take him seriously. He tried looking for Garth, but being human rendered him useless. Or so he thinks.

He doesn't wish to see Dean again until he gets back his Grace, so he moved to Lawrence, Kansas, the place where everything started, the place of so many memories for the Winchesters, the place where they wouldn't want to come back—or so he thinks.

He found the house across the Pleasances the cheapest, so he moved there with the little money he earned from different places he worked at before settling there. He found a job at the library, and he still doesn't know where to start until Ryan Pleasance told him about Mr Wheaton.

Using the few hunter smarts he learned from Dean and Sam, he went inside Mr Wheaton's house. Dust and cobwebs are making themselves comfortable in all the available surfaces. He got out his flashlight and started looking around.

Devil's traps, angel wards, and protection against witches were everywhere. Salt lined every open space in the house. Iron, sacks of salt, bottles of holy water, silver blades, and wooden stakes were in the kitchen. Books were scattered here and there, and he was at a loss as to where to start. He settled in prodding the deceased's bed when in the corner of his eye, he saw a loose floorboard barely visible. He walked towards it, and tried to loosen the floorboard. After a few excruciating minutes and bruised fingers, the board loosened, and in his hands was a letter with all kinds of traps and sigils and protections Mr Wheaton could draw and cram into a tiny piece of paper.

He opened the envelope, and read Mr Maurice Wheaton—or Mr Marvin Cole's—letter of goodbye.

Witches can transform to hares. The Black Hare could be a witch. And there's only one white, blinding, warm, and sometimes comfortable light that he could think of.

An angel's Grace.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Wednesday, 21 August 2013, 06:19PM_

He was eating a takeaway from a Thai diner when the doorbell rang. It rang a few more times, but he was too tired from cataloguing boxes of books in the library, and was very tempted to not answer the door when he heard that painfully familiar voice.

"Mr Jimmy Milton?"

The food laid forgotten on the table as he tried to process things.

_Why is he here?_

But he called him by his fake name, so chances are he still doesn't know that it's him living at this small place.

"Mr Milton?" the voice called again, and the familiar sensation of thorns constricting his stomach came back. Something in his chest lurched, and he found it hard to breathe and tears welled up in his eyes.

_He hasn't heard that voice for so long. He missed it so much. He missed it just as he misses his Grace._

He lost control over his limbs. All that he heard was that voice calling his fake name, the fake name he got by combining his vessel's first name and one of his sisters's last name. For a moment, he thought that he became a statue. He couldn't think of anything to do. The moment was so surreal that his brain rejected to process it. His knees weakened and his lungs seemed to shrink.

The doorbell rang, the knocks increased, and the voice became louder.

"Mr Milton, we're wondering if can ask you a few questions."

He closed his eyes and forced the tears back. He willed his knobbly knees to stand up, and forcing his body to walk towards the door felt like he was dragging a huge ball of lead chained to his ankles.

He walked slowly towards the door. He rested his hand on the brass knob and leaned against the wooden door. He felt the vibrations of the wood as knocks landed across the surface, and with each knock that sounded, his heart leapt, but whether out of pain or joy, he doesn't want to know.

Slowly, he mustered courage and turned the knob with shaky fingers. He opened the door little by little until—

"Good evening, Mr Mil—"

The door was open wide enough to reveal himself to the man who has always owned his heart.

And the world stopped revolving.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_18 August 2013_

They were at a bar in Tennessee when they chanced upon Garth Fitzgerald IV.

They were drinking beers when his too-happy voice greeted them, and after exchanges of 'How have you been' and 'What happened to your last case', Garth settled down beside Sam.

"Where's Castiel?" he asked, a smile on his mouth, and turned to the bartender, "Just tap beer."

Garth became wary of Dean's sudden mood shift, and was about to ask about it when Sam spoke. "We haven't heard of him in a few days."

"…Oh," he said, and saw Sam glance at Dean, who was now drinking his beer, dejected look gone. He saw him clench his fists. He can still sense if something is a sore spot, so he just asked them about their latest case.

"Just a cursed object," Sam said, "It was tricky, but nothing we can handle. How about you? And how's Kevin?"

"Kevin's fine," Garth answered, "I think he's planning to go to college."

Sam smiled. "He should."

"Yeah," he said. After a few awkward silences, he said, "I was at Lawrence, Kansas for my last case."

The brothers sputtered on their drinks.

"Lawrence?" Dean asked incredulously, "What are you doing there?"

"A case," he answered as-a-matter-of-factly, "Maurice Wheaton, 43, cardiac arrest. There were devil's traps and angel wards and witch protection sigils all over his salt-lined house."

"Witch protection sigils?" Dean said, serious voice dropping a notch.

"Yes," Garth answered, "I saw in his files that he's tracking a witch which can transform into a black hare, and a blinding white light is connected to it."

Garth felt Sam and Dean's headgears turning.

"We're also looking for a witch," Sam said gravely, "But we don't know where to start. It's as if she became none-existent."

He told them about his findings, about how he gave Marvin Cole the hunter's burial, how he intentionally left the letter in his old house for other hunters to see. Sam asked why didn't he continue the hunt. Garth said that it's because he reached a dead end. His interviewees wouldn't budge—particularly Missouri Moseley. ("She warned me that if I wanted to stay alive, I should steer out of this case and find other things to hunt. She said that my life's not worth risking for this one.") Dean told him that he has heard stories of the White Light, but not the Black Hare. He often heard of the White Light when he was just a kid. Sam was still a baby back then, so it fell on him to tell his brother the story since John was almost never around.

Three days later, Garth received a message from Sam, telling him that they've arrived at the Pleasance's door, and asked if he would like to investigate the case with them.

He denied the offer, saying that he has another hunt to finish, but he might swing by.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Wednesday, 21 August 2013, 06:23PM_

As far as Dean—aka Agent Wilson—knows, it was Mr Jimmy Milton who lived in Rhode Island St, not Castiel, Angel of the Lord.

To him, he'd always be an angel, Grace or without Grace, and he'd always be the angel whom he let his walls down for.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Spectre? Shapeshifter? Or was he dreaming?

It has been roughly eight months—eight long, chest-constricting, tear-inducing, random fucking, alcohol-imbibing months—since he last saw his angel. He looked at him unblinkingly, taking in the features he had been so familiar with.

It took Dean everything he had just to hold himself from reaching out an arm and touching Cas's face. He fought every need and desperation of his body to run his fingers across the stubbles of the angel's jaw. He repressed every urge to caress Cas's face, to take it between his hands, and stare at the oceans trapped inside the other's eyes. His instincts are screaming at him to cup the other's face, look into those wide blue eyes, and kiss him until they're both out of breath.

But Dean didn't yield to temptation. He just stared at the man before him, disbelieving eyes and all. They were both engaged in an unspoken staring contest, and both aren't likely to lose any sooner. They stared at each other, mouths closed, yet their wide eyes, hushed breathing, and racing heartbeats revealed everything they wanted to say.

They just stood there, motionless, not gathering up the courage to say what it is that they feel.

Sam broke the tension with a cough.

"Hey Cas," he said in a softly, awkwardly, "Long time no see."

Dean regained control of his body. "H-Hey, Cas," he said, voice cracking. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes.

"I think I'll leave you two alone," Sam said, not bothering to make up any excuse and be smooth about it.

Dean gave the keys to his brother. "Take care of her."

"I will," Sam said, and glanced back at Dean and Cas, "I'll see you."

Dean and Cas watched the Impala drive away, and they were left alone.

"I—" his angel said, eyes darting frantically to everywhere but him. He bit his lip, and settled his gaze on his shoe. "Would… Would you like to come in?" he asked, voice cracking.

"I've missed you so fucking much," Dean blurted out, emotion surging in his tone.

Dean saw the slightest twitch in the corner of Cas's lips, but that might be just his imagination. And he still doesn't know whether it was just his mind playing tricks on him, or his right hand suddenly found its way on his angel's face. His thumb slid across the stubbles on his jaw, the smooth expanse of his cheeks, the still-shut lips. Dean ran his thumb over Cas's lips, his eyes never leaving the other's. He left it to his hand to speak at its loudest that _I've missed you so fucking much _and_ no words can ever express how much I longed for you_.

"Cas," he murmered, caressing the other's face. Cas stepped back, but he firmly placed his hand to his cheeks, holding him still, willing him to stay. "Please, Cas."

Cas's eyes were filled with hesitation, but Dean's adoring gaze made Cas lean into Dean's hand. The ex-angel closed his eyes, ending the non-existent staring contest. Dean grazed his thumb on the other's lips, and with each agonisingly slow movement, he made him feel everything that he wants to say. He made sure that needn't hear it anymore, because the volume of his actions was loud enough to engrave in every bone of his body that what he wants to convey.

Every rational part of his brain is telling him to back away, but Castiel took a step closer, cupping Dean's face. Dean saw the tiniest bit of hesitation in the other's eyes, but Castiel brought his face closer to his, until their noses were touching. Dean snaked his arms around him, and a second later, their lips reacquainted. It was just a simple pressing of the lips—gentle, chaste, unhurried. Castiel wrapped his arms around Dean's neck, and he moved his lips, inviting Dean to dance to a music only their heartbeats knew. It was a relaxed tugging of lips; slow, sensual, loving. Their heartbeats sped up, and so did their lips; Dean reacted with more urgency, more need, more contact. He moved furiously against Castiel, until his tongue decided to knock at the angel's bottom lip; Castiel parted his mouth, and Dean's tongue found the former angel's, and they felt electricity running through their bodies.

They tasted each other. They savoured each other's unique taste and familiarised themselves with the map of each other's mouth. They kissed with more fervour and passion as their tongues spoke for the both of them.

Like being submerged in the water for too long, they resurfaced, and gulped in copious amounts of oxygen. They smiled at each other. There was hesitation, fear, and denial, but at that moment, all that mattered was that they were standing close to each other. Dean could never forget Cas's flushed face, swollen lips, sweating forehead, twinkling eyes, and that small smile he knows is reserved just for him.

He brought their foreheads together, closed their eyes, and listened to the soft hum of their breaths and the light drumming of their hearts.

Castiel wants to say that this is all wrong, that Dean shouldn't be here, that he needs to do this alone.

Deans wants to tell him that they can do this together. That no one needs to do things alone anymore.

They both know what the other is trying to say, and for now, not hearing it aloud would suffice.

**.**

**.**

**.**

**.**

_Wednesday, 21 August 2013, 6:44PM_

When he and Dean stepped foot at Lawrence, Kansas, immediate waves of nostalgia attacked his brother. He couldn't remember a thing about his childhood there, because he was just a six-month-old baby, for God's sake. Not that he believes in a god or something.

The last time he was there was when they battled a poltergeist at their old house, which then belonged to Jenny. He wonders if they're still around, or if their old house still looked the same from all those years ago.

He decided against visiting it. He wants to go there with Dean so they could check things out together, and maybe, if his brother and the former angel got together again, they can show Castiel the house where everything started.

Instead, he was knocking at Missouri Moseley's door.

Missouri looked at him with bewildered eyes before she smacked his shoulders, making him yelp in pain. "I haven't seen you in years, Sam Winchester! I have heard all sorts of craziness about you. Now go inside and tell me your story because I'd rather hear it from your mouth."

He took in Missouri's appearance. She has aged, but her fierceness remains.

Sam started at John's death. It was painful for him to discuss about it, but Missouri had the right to hear the stories from his side. Straight from the horse's mouth. Then there was Ruby, Dean's forty years in hell, Castiel, angels, Lilith, Michael Sword, Lucifer's Vessel, Adam Milligan, Chuck Shurley, the Apocalypse, Sam in the cage with Lucifer, soulless Sam, Crowley, Eve, leviathans, Dick Roman, Purgatory, and Metatron. Missouri said that she catches stories from here and there, but chose to stay out of the hunter radar.

By the time he finished, it was 8:02PM, and Missouri wouldn't admit that she tear up a little.

"Have you eaten dinner?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"Now have dinner with me, but don't expect me to tell you anything about the Black Hare."

Sam's eyes widened, but he later schooled his features when he remembered how Missouri knew things about them when they didn't even tell her a thing.

"Why… Why can't you?"

Missouri's face became serious in all of the sudden. "I don't know how you knew about the Black Hare, but you do not talk about it with me."

"Missouri, I just—"

"Either I tell you about the White Light, or you leave."

Sam sighed. Missouri spoke with finality that made him cringe. He's sure that the Black Hare's not an ordinary witch if a powerful psychic like Missouri refuses to talk about it. He'll have to probe further later.

"Okay, tell me about the White Light."

Missouri served him a pasta dish. "Aglio olio," she said, and sat down.

She took a forkful, swallowed, and began.

"You should know this since you're from here. Your brother must have told you.

"The White Light is said to be a white, warm, and blinding light. It has left four different craters in the forest, and days after the light exploded, people could feel comfort coming from the craters. People who approached the hole either got lucky or unlucky. It was unknown as to who or what caused it, and was the topic of debates and rumours. It was last seen January 9th.

"Anything the matter, boy?"

_January 9__th__, the day after Castiel lost his grace to the witch_. "Nothing… Please continue."

Missouri looked at him warily, but continued nonetheless. "That was the fourth White Light, and just like the first three, people had their share of fortunes and misfortunes. There was nothing after that."

"And no one still knows where it came from?"

"No, I'm afraid not. You might want to check on Mr Charles Lewis though. I've already directed two hunters to him. And do not bother coming back to me 'cause I ain't telling you a thing."

* * *

**A/N:** Please point out any mistakes, and tell me what you think. Thank you!


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